


You're Mine Now

by timmyyturnerr



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Blood, F/F, Femlock, i wrote this like eighty years ago, omg, this shit is femlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2013-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-14 04:36:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timmyyturnerr/pseuds/timmyyturnerr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Long, long ago, Sabrina Moran was once recruited to work for Jade Moriarty.<br/>Or, better, how it all started.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Mine Now

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I wrote this a few months ago and found it in my writing folder and decided it wasn't as awful as I thought it was. It's pretty short, and the beginning is a little unclear, but it's more telling as you continue to read it. It's femlock. yay.

Halfway to wherever we're going, the thugs grab me and force a bandanna over my eyes. I deliver a solid hit to the gut to the smaller guy with the huge, ugly scars on his neck, who falls back into his chair right before the bandanna goes over my face. The older guy in the passenger's seat tells me again that if I try anything funny, she'll have my head.

I don't know who she is, but I go with it, for curiosity. 

It takes another twenty minutes before the car comes to a stop. The men announce that we're where we're supposed to be, and doors open, and then I'm yanked out of the car, much to my displeasure. I'm sure that all six of the guys are keeping me from running away, two of them are holding my arms firmly, and I'm more sure that if I try to get out of there I'll be shot, stabbed, or something else that won't exactly be ideal.

So, I go with it.

We walk down what feels like a stone pathway, up a few stairs which feel like rock, or maybe marble, and enter a house. It smells like clohrene and formaldehyde and Windex. I don't hear anyone talking, and I think that maybe it's not as big a house as I might've thought.

Another door opens, and I'm shoved inside another room that smells like ham and cheese, of all things. I hear scraping against the floor, and then one of the men shoves me into a chair. One of them say, "She's a pistol," which makes me snort. Another one of the guys grabs the bandanna an rips it off my head. 

I don't know weather to laugh or keep staring.

I'm sitting at one end of a white dining room table, in a room that is painted completely black. The chairs and table are squared and modern and expensive-looking. At the other end of the table is a woman. She has long, straight black hair, pushed back with her fingers. She has dark brown eyes, long, thick eyelashes, and weird eyebrows that remind me of spider legs. She is pale, and undeniably, very pretty. Her nails are painted black, and on a black plate, she's eating a hot pocket with a fork and huge kitchen knife.

This bloody woman is wearing an expensive blazer and an even more expensive-looking black dress, and she's eating a fucking hot pocket with a kitchen knife.

She's looking at me, staring at me, not even trying to hide that she's examining me. I suddenly feel a little self-conscious of the dark pink scar going down one side of my face, or my choppy blonde haircut, and then I remember that this woman had had me kidnapped out of my own apartment.

The woman makes eye contact with me, and then smiles tightly. "Jade Moriarty," she says, in a scratchy Irish drawl. "Hi."

"Hi?" I reply. I shook off how weird she is. "What the fuck am I doing here?" 

"Use your manners when you're talking to me," she says, and I swear I can hear one of the guys behind the door say to his friend, 'oh god, she's in that prissy mood again,' and I scoff.

"Might I ask what the fuck I'm doing here, ma'am?" I say, my voice dripping in sarcasm. She looks up at me in surprise, like it's abnormal for people to speak with her sarcastically.

"I want you to work for me." She says after a moment of eyeing me down again, as if she was reconsidering. I actually laugh.

"Why? What do you know about me?" I ask, an eyebrow raised.

"Everything," Jade begins. "I know where you live. I know your parents, your siblings. I know how many people you've killed. I know you need to do something with those hideous eyebrows, Jesus- I know you're sufficient with doing your laundry, for someone who's used to living alone, also ex-military. I know you're a good worker, you're good at listening to orders. I know I need a new bodyguard, and I want you to work for me." she ends by taking a small bite of her hot pocket and swallowing it without chewing it first.

"So you're saying you need me?" I ask, trying to act unfazed by all of that information.

"No, I'm need a new bodyguard. I want you. Not only as a bodyguard, but as a sniper. The pay's good, ask any of my workers. I mean, you'd get to live here, which should be pay enough." she snaps.

"What do you even need a bodyguard for?" I snap back, leaning forward.

At that, a genuine grin spreads across her face, showing off her bright white teeth. "That, Sebrina, is something you'll find out in time. Are you in?" 

I stare at her and think. I think of the second letter that I'd found slapped on my door this morning declaring that I was to be evicted in the next month. I think of how I'm getting bored of not having any jobs, and I'm getting considerably antsy. I look at Jade Moriarty, staring me down, all elegant, and I swear she's literally glistening. 

"Sure," I say with a shrug, like it's nothing.

If possible, her grin widens. "Oh, amaaaazing!" she sing-songs. "Perfect. Great. Amazing. Brilliant." Then, she looks at me, very seriously. "You must know, though, that this job- starting in about three minutes- is the one you'll have for the rest of your life. If you try to leave- well." She pulls her pointer finger slowly across her neck, making a hissing noise. The gesture is clear to me, and I understand. But how bad could it be, honestly?

"Understood," I say simply, and she grins again. Then, she stands up, wielding the sharp, overlarge kitchen knife. "Stand up," she says, and I look at her strangely. Her eyes darken, and she opens her mouth to say something, but I sigh quietly and stand up. I notice that even with me in my combat boots and her in her ridiculous heels, I'm still taller than her by a good four inches. She strides over to me, her heels clicking against the linoleum floor, and looks me in the eyes before curling her long fingers around the hem of the neck of my shirt and pulling it away to reveal my shoulder. She pushes my bra strap down, and my eyebrows knit. "What the bloody hell are you doing?" 

"Hold still," she replies, and then she holds up her knife and digs it only slightly into my skin. I'm only slightly surprised, and yes, it hurts, but I just grit and bear it. She begins to write, curving and bending, digging a dot, and then some lines which much only slightly intersect, then another dot. She steps back and admires her work, wiping my blood off the knife with her fingers. She sets the knife on the table and carelessly starts to wipe away the steady flow of my blood with my white t-shirt, pressing it here and there, and she doesn't even hide the fact that she's looking at me when she pulls it to the angle where she can see my stomach or bra, and I silently think she's doing it so she can see on purpose. 

When the blood fades, I see two thick, messy cuts spelling out the letters 'J.M.' 

"You're mine now," she says with a grin, and I think that maybe that's not such a bad thing.


End file.
